Chapter 12 #2
“I’ve brought you some toast and half a tin of Heinz tomato soup,” he says, ignoring me.
“Heated up, obviously, I didn’t just tip it into the bowl.
Although I do drink it like that sometimes, if I’m really famished.
Can’t recommend. And ibuprofen and two paracetamols.
I won’t be offended if you’re not hungry, though.
I’ve grated a bit of cheese in with the soup, because, honestly, why wouldn’t you?
And galoshes are rubber overshoes, by the way.
I looked them up. You probably knew that anyway, didn’t you?
Don’t force the toast down—I said I won’t mind.
But you should absolutely take the painkillers so you can shower more easily, and before you ask, yes, you can take them together. ”
Alaric thrusts everything at me, accompanied by a cup of tea and a glass of water, before perching himself on the bed. “Patients query that all the time,” he explains before leaping up again. “And the dressings are waterproof. Tuck in, before it goes cold. I’ll be back with mine.”
He's exhausting and inescapable, especially as he’s in my bedroom, and I’m too lousy to clamber out of bed.
I’m desperately in need of a shower; my hair’s so lank and greasy Alaric can probably see his reflection in it.
As if that’s not bad enough, I’m pickled in sweat, iodine, and the unmistakable scent of hospital.
Cut grass smells far sweeter. What’s more, the prettiest (and most aggravating) man who’s ever laid a hand on my apparently chiselled abs is sitting cross-legged and uninvited on my bed, managing to both smile, talk, and elegantly demolish a heaped bowl of—
“You’re staring at me,” he observes, spoon halfway to his mouth. The pink tip of his tongue pokes out, and he gives his glossy lips a self-conscious lick.
“Yes, because you’re eating raspberry yoghurt with crisps mashed in it.”
Alaric’s blue eyes flick up slowly, meeting mine with a level stare. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. This combo got me through some tough night shifts. We’re trauma-bonded.”
He’s something, all right.
I reach the end of the soup, every mouthful supervised by my self-appointed nursemaid.
The painkillers are kicking in, which means a hot shower beckons.
As does a bone-deep craving for quiet, for stillness.
I’ve peopled way too much over the last day or so, and it’s catching up with me.
And Alaric was right about feeling whacked.
I could sleep for a week, despite having snoozed the last few hours away. Strangely, he seems to pick up on it.
“Don’t get up too quickly,” he advises, taking my bowl. “You might feel lightheaded. I can hang around, if you like, see you safely into the bathroom, or I can—“
“I’ll be fine,” I interrupt. “You must have better things to do than babysit me.” And then, because he’s gone way above and beyond and my early kneejerk opinion of him requires some strong revisions, I add, “I should thank you for the lift to and from the hospital, and… sorry for…um…the fallout before all this happened. I… I guess I’m not cut out for…
um… having someone else around constantly. ”
“You’re doing great,” he protests quickly. We both know it’s a lie.
I remember something else. “You were supposed to be house hunting yesterday, instead of taking me to the hospital. So thank you for cancelling that, too. Do you think that flat will still be available on Monday? Maybe you could tee up a visit for after work.”
“You must be very keen to get rid of me.”
Fortunately, Alaric carries on before I can think of a diplomatic response.
Or explore why the idea of him moving out unsettles me.
“Not a chance. That will be long gone. You know what the London rental market is like.” He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter.
“It’s fine—there will be others. I’m signed on with several agencies, and I’ve already got proof of the credit checks and references and everything.
Being a doctor goes a long way with shit like that. I mean, everyone trusts you, right?”
“Only because they don’t know you watch people sleeping.” My stab at humour surprises the both of us. I’m about to add something else, but hesitate, because then he’ll know I listen to the pointless shit that pours from him when I pretend not to.
But he’s been so nice.
“I also looked up galoshes for you,” I admit. “It comes from the old French for clogs, via the Latin gallica sole, which is something to do with shoes.”
“Oh wow! That is so cool! I love that!” Alaric’s face blooms with delight.
God knows he’s easy to look at, but I also find myself drinking in how he sees the world sideways.
We view life through very different lenses and, strangely, I’m thirsty for more of it.
“Thanks for looking it up. Galoshes! Such a splashy, stomping-through-puddles kind of word!” He slips from the bed to march on the spot.
His yoghurt spoon clings to the bowl by a thread. “Galosh, galosh, galosh. See?”
I see and hear plenty, and I’m unsure what to make of it.
What to make of him and the effect he has on me.
“Yeah. And…um…I’m going to tell my dad later about me having my appendix out.
He doesn’t need to trek over here and see me, I’ll be fine.
But you were right. It’s the sort of thing he would want to know. ”
“Oh, okay. Cool. Whatever you think.”
I think he’s going then, but hand on the door handle, he stops and turns.
“Gerald? I’ve been chewing things over, how we argued and everything. And…it’s me who should be apologising to you. I overstepped, asking you about your relationship with your dad. You were right. It’s none of my business.”
“Okay.” Internally scrambling, I force a weak smile. I don’t do emotional vulnerability. On a scale of one to please-stop-talking, he’s teetering off the far end.
“But it’s more than that,” he babbles on.
“Like I said at the hospital, I thought I could hack it in the ‘burbs, but it’s not right for me. I don’t think I’m ready yet, you know?
I was thirty earlier this year. That’s not old, is it?
I mean, I’ve only given Sutton Common a few weeks, but sometimes, you can just tell when a place is right, can’t you?
I know lots of people settle at this age—nearly all of my mates have—and you seem happy enough here.
Don’t get me wrong. It isn’t a criticism of everyone else, nor you—God, not you, it’s a reflection on me.
And all of my imperfections. I’m an immature dick who talks too much.
No one except Stefan puts up with me for very long.
His fiancé hates my guts, even though he likes the smell of my pants.
” He shakes his blond head. “But going back to the settling-down thing. Isaac and Ez, my mate Luke, Stefan, and… and you… you’re doing great. It’s me who’s the odd one out.”
These words tumble out of him like he’s racing to shut his mouth before anything else slips through. A pause signals he’s reached the end.
“Right,” I respond.
The door closes behind him, and I’m finally alone.
And though it was uncomfortable as hell, I’m relieved we’ve cleared the air and made our peace.
He’s right; he’s not cut out for dull suburban living, and maybe I’m not cut out for Hurricane Alaric blowing through my house.
At last, we’re on the same page about something.
Both of us can chalk this “living together” thing down as a mistake and amicably go our separate ways.
So why does him walking back into the kitchen, balancing our bowls and cups and telling the floor it’s suffered a near miss when the crockery rattles alarmingly, make me feel like a guilty kid skirting around the edge of something?